The Human Seasons
by HellToupee
Summary: Jimmy always told him he'd meet a girl. Free-floating AU, Richard Harrow/OFC.
1. Spring

SPRING

* * *

><p>The first time they meet, it's at one of Jimmy's strategic liquor-soaked parties in Babette's VIP lounge.<p>

He sits at his usual spot on an abandoned sofa, stiff and uncomfortable amongst the overheated crowd. One of the men (probably Bader, the pompous bastard) is wearing too much cologne; it's mixing badly with the cigar smoke and is giving him a headache. He sips his drink and scans the room again. Jimmy is holding court in the high-backed chair to the left side of the room, and gives Richard a small nod before returning to his conversation with Doyle and Capone.

Fortunately he's not required to mingle; Jimmy brings him along just to get him out of the house, and because he's got a talent for observation. There isn't much that slips Richard's notice. Right now, though, he just wishes he could go home, except Jimmy's still here. And he can't leave unless Jimmy does.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?" He looks up to find a woman standing next to him, indicating the empty space on the sofa.

She is beautiful.

"No ma'am." He has to pause, to get rid of the damned click that comes with the severely damaged vocal cords he was cursed with. "Have a seat."

She smiles gratefully and sinks into the cushion. He shifts to make more room despite already being pressed up against the arm of the sofa, trying not to stare at the way her dark hair contrasts with the faded pink of the upholstery.

"Thank you so much. It's a bit warm in here; I just needed a rest for a minute." Her words are lightly accented; Southern, he thinks. A little bit French.

"Yes. It's all the people. And the…cigars." She grins at him again and throws back her scotch. He returns the smile shyly before scanning the room again. Jimmy is smirking at him from his perch. Richard narrows his good eye at him before returning his attention to the woman.

"Can I ask your name?" She shifts her glass from her right hand to her left, so she can shake his hand. A small drop of condensation slides down the crystal and splashes onto her bottle-green dress. Richard can't help thinking about the ocean in the summer; it's the exact same color, the beads on the bodice glittering like the sun on the waves.

"Of course. Marie Rivette, from New Orleans. Pleasure to meet you." He takes her hand and shakes it gently.

"Richard Harrow, Wisconsin." She nods thoughtfully and settles further into the sofa, turning so that she's facing him.

"So who are you here with, Richard?" He nods towards Jimmy, who is now angrily debating some point or another with Lansky and Luciano.

"Jimmy Darmody. My friend." There's a moment of awkward silence; she's waiting for him to elaborate, he's trying to find a way to politely change the subject. He doesn't discuss business with civilians. "Are you here with someone, or…"

She shakes her head, tucking a wisp of escaped hair behind her ear. Richard's mesmerized by the brush of her fingertips down her neck.

"Just a few of the girls. Elizabeth heard I wasn't doing anything tonight and invited me along." Richard seeks Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye; if he remembers correctly, she's the redheaded whore wearing the purple dress tonight, the one who's been the mayor's favorite for the past few weeks. Sure enough, she's got her long legs swung up in his lap, her dress pushed up well over her knees.

"Do you work…with her?" It takes Marie a few seconds to decipher what he's asking, her blue eyes widening slightly with the realization. He feels strangely guilty when she frowns and pulls back from him slightly.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I'm a secretary for one of the shipping firms. Elizabeth and I live in the same building, we're neighbors." He stares at his feet, burning with embarrassment for having asked.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." Silence stretches painfully between them while the racket and motion of the party continues all around. Richard begins counting the beats of his heart and gets to twenty-three before she speaks again.

"It's alright." Marie sighs, looking at Elizabeth. "It doesn't bother me, you know. Her line of work, that is." He finally looks back up at her. She's smiling again.

"Why not?" Shrugging, she gestures towards the women in the room. Richard looks at them all obediently, taking in their appearances, their demeanor, their smiles. He spends a fair amount of time looking at these women during the regular parties Jimmy throws, wondering what would happen if he walked up to them and asked for what he wanted instead of Jimmy having to tell them. Tonight, though, they're no more fascinating than the pattern of the carpet.

"There isn't a lot of well-paying work out there for single women, and if it's what she needs to do to survive, who am I to judge?"

There's a sudden commotion beside them, and two of the whores –a blonde named Francine, who's taken pity on him once or twice, and a brunette that he's unfamiliar with- are trying to get Marie's attention. He bites back his irritation, smoothing his face into controlled calm.

"Marie, lover! There's a party on the beach, it sounds simply _divine_, you have to come! We promise to have you home at a decent hour." Marie looks back at Richard apologetically, standing and straightening her dress as the two women chatter. One of them takes her hand and begins tugging her towards the door. She pulls away and turns back to him, extending her hand again.

"It was lovely talking to you, Richard. Maybe we'll see each other on the boardwalk?" He takes her hand and shakes it again, silently cursing the clicks that escape his throat before he can stop them.

"Maybe. Have fun at the party, Marie." She smiles at him, and he finds himself returning it; a genuine smile, or at least as close to one as he can manage anymore with his injuries. As she walks away he is surprised to find his heart beating faster than usual, something that only ever happens during a hit anymore.

He spends the rest of the evening determined not to look at the empty spot on the other end of the sofa.

* * *

><p>It's almost two weeks before he sees her again.<p>

He's walking down the boardwalk with Jimmy and Angela; they're taking Tommy out for his birthday, and invite Richard to come along. He's trailing along behind them, stopping to look in the shop windows and making sure Tommy doesn't get too far ahead while his parents are busy buying taffy and considering a wireless for the house, when Jimmy suddenly calls his name.

"Isn't that that girl from Babette's? The one you were talking to a few weeks ago?" Richard follows Jimmy's line of sight to a bench facing the beach. Angela catches them up, Tommy in her arms, wondering aloud at the situation. Jimmy grins and wraps an arm around her waist.

"Richard's sweetheart is over on that bench, but he won't go talk to her." Richard kicks at a loose board, feeling his face flush.

"She's not my…sweetheart. We met at a…party two weeks ago." Jimmy and Angela both beam at him. Tommy kicks and wails to be let down. Angela shifts him to her hip and lays a hand on Richard's shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly.

"Go on. Talk to her." She gives him a gentle push towards Marie. "There's a fair tonight, see if she wants to go."

He hesitates.

Jimmy takes him by the shoulder and steers him towards the bench. Marie's back is to him, engrossed in a notebook of some kind; she's scribbling in it furiously, stopping only to tuck loose strands of hair back to keep them out of her face. In the sunlight he can finally determine its true color; it's so dark that it's nearly black. Jimmy begins marching him forward, abandoning him halfway across the boardwalk.

"You got through the war, you can talk to a girl. Go, do it." He strolls back to where Angela is waiting for him further down the boardwalk, presumably to give Richard some privacy. Richard takes a deep breath, flexing his hands, and walks up to the bench.

"Excuse me, is anyone…sitting here?" Marie looks up, startled, before recognition sets in.

"Richard!" She springs to her feet, clutching the ledger to her chest. "How are you?"

He inclines his head, takes her gently by the elbow, and sits them both down. His heart is pounding again. He can do this, he knows; he used to be decent at it, at small talk, before the war. If only he could remember how.

"I'm fine, you?" In the bright light of day he notices details he missed in the smoky club; the exact color of her skin (a smooth, light olive), a slight gap between her front teeth, the small, nearly invisible scar through her right eyebrow. The constant, inviting tilt of her head.

"Wonderful. It's been so nice lately, I've been coming out here to write for the past couple of days. I've needed the sun after all that rain." He looks at the notebook in her hand. Its black leather cover is engraved with the initials _MCR_ in silver. He taps it with a finger.

"_MCR_?" She opens the book to the flyleaf, where a name is inscribed in perfect schoolgirl copperplate.

"Marie Cleménce Rivette. My papa's Cajun, and my mama's a bit of everything. I was named for my grandmothers." Richard nods thoughtfully.

"It's…a beautiful name." She blushes prettily, and Richard feels his chest tighten almost painfully with something that feels a lot like happiness. Taking a deep breath, he soldiers on.

"My middle…name's Joseph. Kind of boring next to Marie…Cleménce Rivette, though." He winces at his pronunciation, not quite able to get his ruined mouth around the French r's. A glance at Marie tells him that she's studying him closely.

"I don't think so. It's very masculine. Very traditional. A good strong name for a good strong man." He looks at her, dumbfounded, for a moment, not entirely sure how to reply. She patiently waits him out rather than speak. Eventually he settles on a subject change.

"So what…do you write in there?" She shifts uncomfortably, her hands tightening on the book.

"Bad poetry, mostly. The occasional short story. Sometimes it's just whatever I'm thinking about. It's difficult for me to get through the day without spending part of it scribbling. It just feels right." She shrugs, giving him a half-smile that sends his heart fluttering. He suddenly remembers Angela's suggestion, and turns on the bench to face her.

"Look, there's a fair…on the boardwalk tonight, and…I was wondering if maybe—"

"I was actually about to ask you the same—"

"-if you don't already have plans-"

"Of course!" He freezes, face falling, and Marie laughs nervously. "I mean, of course I'd love to go with you, not 'of course I already have plans'. Seven o'clock in front of the Ritz?"

He nods silently, his throat still constricted with panic. Marie stands, gathering her things, and he stands with her automatically. She is, he notes, almost a head shorter than he is, even in her heeled shoes.

"I'll see you then," he manages to choke out.

She stands on tiptoe and pecks him on the cheek in reply before walking away.

* * *

><p>He arrives at the Ritz fifteen minutes early out of sheer nerves. Pacing the boards, he checks his reflection in the glass again; the suit he borrowed from Jimmy is slightly too large for him, because Jimmy is broader in the shoulders, and it's the most expensive thing he's ever worn. He can't deny that he looks sharp, though; when he came out of the bedroom at the Darmody's, Jimmy had wolf-whistled and Angela had pronounced him 'completely handsome', and a trip to the mirror in the hall had led to the shock of his life.<p>

The flower in his hand is another thing entirely. He looks at it nervously (he'd asked Angela whether he should even buy flowers at all; "Not a whole bouquet," she'd advised. "You'll get tired of carrying it. Just one should do. And not a rose, that's a bit much for a first date."), hoping Marie likes pink carnations. Hopefully the splitting stem would survive the night.

Marie arrives at 7PM on the dot. Richard sees her reflected in the window first, a blur of royal blue among the yellowed lights illuminating the south end of the boardwalk. When he turns, he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.

She is beautiful.

"You look lovely." He extends the flower to her. To his chagrin, the stem falls off as she accepts it. He swears to himself then and there that he's going to go back to that florist and put the fear of God into him when he has a chance, but he has more important things to attend to now. He watches silently, almost smiling, as she slides what's left of it into her hair, securing it with a hairpin.

"Thank you, for the flower and the compliment. You're a choice bit of calico yourself." She took his hand, twining her fingers through his. "Shall we?"

They stroll among the booths for a while, talking idly and comparing life stories. They find that in the basic respects, they're very similar; both in their twenties (he's twenty-seven, she's twenty-two), with one sibling each (an older brother, Mathieu, for her, and his twin Anna), all four of their parents passed away, both moved to Atlantic City to start over. In others, however, they differ wildly.

For instance: where he's completely indifferent to organized sport, she's wild about baseball.

They stop at a booth proclaiming that any person capable of knocking three stacked milk bottles off a small table three times in a row can win a prize. Richard has played this one before; he knows the bottles are weighted, that there's a specific spot you need to hit, that it's nearly impossible to do all three times. But Marie swears she can do it, so he puts down the nickel despite the derisive laugh of the booth's owner, and stands back as she's given her ammunition.

Three fastballs later, she hands him a small stuffed dog and explains that her brother has been teaching her to pitch since they were children. He vows to never doubt her word again.

Eventually they stumble across a shooting gallery. Richard asks her if she wants to try, and for the first time since he's met her, she hesitates.

"I've never really handled a gun before. Not even the small ones." He puts a quarter on the counter for each of them and hands her an air rifle.

"I'll show you."

He spends the next few minutes showing her where to put her hands, how to set the rifle into her shoulder, how to lean into the shot to avoid kickback. When she takes her first shot, it's with his finger over hers on the trigger, pressed up against his chest a little more than strictly necessary, with the booth owner sniggering fondly at them in the background. She misses the first few targets, but only by a bit; the next few fall with a loud _clang!_ of metal on metal. It's not enough to win, though, and she puts the rifle back down in graceful defeat.

And then Richard picks up his rifle.

It's lighter than the one he's used to, his sniper rifle, but it's still a gun. He settles it, takes aim, and lets loose, the satisfying click of the trigger sending a jolt of glee up his arm as he squeezes it. It's over far too fast, but when he's done ten of the little tin targets are flattened, and even the booth man is staring at him. He turns to Marie, who is wide-eyed and thoroughly impressed. He graciously hands over the stuffed bear he's given before offering her his arm and escorting her back to the boardwalk. They settle against the railing to talk.

"That was…goodness. You're an incredible shot." Richard inclines his head in thanks. Marie is quiet a moment.

"Did you serve in the War?" He takes a deep breath and looks out over the black ocean waves, to give himself time to gather his thoughts.

"Yes, I did. It may not…surprise you, but I was a sharpshooter. I was discharged after…" he taps the left side of his face, the tin side, and she nods.

"Mathieu served too. He was a translator; he already spoke good French, and he took German and Italian in college, so they put him on the ground. He was wounded at Ypres, died a few weeks after they brought him back." She slides her hand into Richard's again, and shakes her head.

"I apologize, this isn't good conversation." Richard cups her face with his free hand, thumb gently tracing her lips, before pulling her in for a kiss.

It's all wrong. The mask gets in the way, covers half his mouth, he can't deepen it the way he wants to (_needs_ to) because the fucking thing is just not _right_. He pulls back and turns away in frustration, furious with himself for trying. Marie is young and whole and _perfect_; she deserves someone who can kiss her properly. Someone with more than half a face.

"I'm sorry."

Marie clutches his hand and pulls him back, pressing herself close to his chest. He closes his eyes, not sure he can take what is sure to be a look of pity on her face. Instead, he feels her press a gentle kiss to his lips before whispering softly.

"It's alright."

She backs away and he opens his eyes to find her standing in front of him, smiling as if nothing had happened. He frowns, confused, as she holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers at him.

"Walk me home?"

* * *

><p>Seven weeks later they're sitting on the stretch of beach outside the Darmody house; Jimmy's in Chicago and Angela took Tommy for a visit to her parents, meaning that it fell to Richard to watch the house. In exchange, he can use the phone occasionally (though there's nobody he'd call except Jimmy, for whom he has no telephone number), drive the car, and go to the beach as much as he likes.<p>

Richard is very fond of the beach, especially if Marie is with him.

He's in his usual shirt and trousers, rolled up to the elbows and knees, but she's in a new swimming costume, the most daring one she could find that wouldn't get her arrested. He still wishes that she could have found it in a shade of green or purple, both colors that he's discovered are completely ravishing on her, but this style was only available in navy or red.

At least he can see her legs. The swimsuit exposes them to just above her knees, more if she sits down and the skirt gets rucked by the wind or his hands, wandering the curves of her body if they happen to be alone. It's more skin than he's ever seen exposed on a clothed woman.

Unlike his own pale complexion, Marie's skin never burns; she simply grows darker and more golden.

She's lying on the blanket beside him, facedown, asleep. He stretches out next to her, head propped on one hand, and wonders what would happen if he kissed her awake and made love to her right there. They've been going steady for four weeks now, and she confessed to him only a week ago that she was still a virgin. He wants her first time to be a bit more intimate than his had been, a businesslike fuck with a whore named Odette in Chicago, so he hasn't been pushing it.

The matter is settled when she rolls to her side and reaches for him in her sleep. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close to give her some measure of protection from the wind, and dozes off himself.

They're in his flat a few weeks later when he removes his mask in front of her for the first time.

He picks her up at work after her shift is done (after he's done with that deal north of the city, the one that nearly went bad and ended in a shootout, but of course he's not going to tell her that) and they go to his flat so he can get changed into something suitable for dinner.

She turns and politely looks out the window while he changes as quickly as he can. They talk while he does so, about work (mostly hers) and an upcoming boxing match and the menu at the restaurant, Richard wondering if the menu has become any less difficult to pronounce.

"For me, I mean. You speak French, it'll…be nothing." Marie laughs and launches into an explanation of the differences between Cajun French and continental French, and he pulls off his undershirt.

The mask catches on the neckline and clatters to the floor before he realizes it's even gone.

It happens occasionally, and usually he would just pick it up and set it on the nightstand, but Marie is here, and the noise has startled her into turning around. He panics, barely able to form speech.

"No! Don't-" Richard dives for the floor, trying simultaneously to cover his face and grab for the thing, but it's too late; she's already seen him. Snatching the mask from where it lies on the ground, he turns around and puts it on with shaky hands. Surely this was it. She wouldn't want to be with him now that she'd seen what he really was.

"Richard?" He tensed as he heard her take a tentative step towards him.

"If you want to leave, I wouldn't…blame you. No hard feelings." He flinches slightly as she touches his bare shoulder, the warmth of it feeling as though she were branding his skin.

"Are you okay?"

It's only then that he can bring himself to look at her. There's no horror or disgust in her eyes, no pity, only concern and sadness. He releases a shuddering breath that he was unaware that he was holding and drops his head onto her shoulder. She weaves her fingers into his hair, rubbing soothing patterns into his scalp. They stay like that for what seems like hours; her holding him, him just trying to breathe.

She finally leads him to the bed where they can both sit down, facing each other. She pushes his hair back from his face before rubbing a thumb over the cheekbone of the mask.

"Can I?" He nods and leans forward so she can unhook the glasses from his ears, pulling the tin away from his face. He has to fight the mighty urge to cover his face with his hands.

They sit quietly for several minutes as she looks at him. She examines his face as if trying to memorize it, in case he decides to hide it away again. It's not the cool, appraising eye Angela had used while sketching him; Marie is looking at him hungrily, trying to devour any detail she can find. Even more self-conscious under her scrutiny, he concentrates his attention on the beauty mark at her throat, the one he's been longing to kiss for weeks.

He's thinking about it so hard that she has to ask her question twice.

"How did it happen?" He blinks for a few seconds as it replays in his head, his heart speeding up at the memory.

"I'd rather not-" He can't get the rest of the words out as he chokes up. She cups his cheek, nodding in understanding. He can't help but lean into the touch; it still surprises him sometimes after so many years of loneliness that someone would want to touch _him._

"Does it hurt?" He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve the tension knotted there.

"Sometimes. Mostly just itches. Especially with…the mask on." They both look at the hated thing, abandoned on the bed. Something twists unpleasantly inside him at the sight of his own face staring back at him, and he turns it over to face the quilt. Marie takes his hand and quietly kisses it. He regards her silently for a moment.

"Why aren't you…"Horrified? Completely disgusted? "…afraid of me?"

Marie's face falls, and Richard wants to gather her up in his arms and kiss her as best he can until she's smiling again. He squeezes her hands gently, one rough thumb tracing light circles on her palm. She has to take a deep breath before she can speak.

"When Mathieu came back, he was badly burned from head to toe. I don't know how; they never told us, and he wouldn't talk about it. He looked nothing like himself; if I hadn't heard him speak, if he hadn't known things that I had only ever told him, I would never have recognized him." She lets go of his hand to wipe away an escaped tear.

"It was hard to look at, especially because it was my own brother, and he was in so much pain. He eventually killed himself because he was hurting so much." Richard wraps an arm around her then, pulling her into his lap and settling her against his chest. Neither of them cries.

The finally break apart, and Richard finishes getting dressed while Marie touches up her rouge in his tiny mirror. He smiles a little bit; it's almost domestic. He's sitting on the bed to put on his shoes when she finally turns back to him.

"You don't have to wear it, Richard. When it's just us, I mean. It's uncomfortable for you to wear and seeing you without it doesn't bother me." He stares at her in shock, shoes completely forgotten.

"Are you sure? Because it's…not a problem. I'm used to it." He stands and walks to her, mask in hand, unsure if he's heard her correctly. She gently tugs the mask from his hands, stands on tiptoe, and kisses him full on the mouth.

The world stops.

They're both panting and leaning into each other fiercely when they finally surface for air, reluctantly separating and disentangling from each other. The need in the room is palpable, but now isn't the time; they're both still too raw, too vulnerable. Any more touch than is absolutely necessary might shatter them both.

Marie hands him the mask and watches him put it on before adjusting his tie for him. He can feel her hands through the layers of his clothing.

"I mean it, Richard. If you want to take it off when we're alone, do. There's no reason why you should be uncomfortable on my behalf."

Richard just stands there, far too emotional to speak. After a minute he manages to get his shoes on and ushers her out the door, where the car is waiting to take them to the restaurant.

It takes him a few weeks to realize that she really does mean it. It's not long after that that he's only wearing the mask in public or when there's company.

He tells her the story of how he was wounded several months later. It's one of only two times he ever tells somebody who isn't a doctor. She doesn't cry when he tells her. He doesn't want her to.


	2. Summer

Summer

* * *

><p>They make love for the first time exactly four days after she first sees him without the mask.<p>

He's been running up and down the Jersey coast overseeing deliveries and making transactions for weeks, and he finally has a whole day to himself, as well as the evening before. A Sunday, even; Marie has Sundays off, and they can spend the entire day lazing around as they please.

He jogs into the florists', catching them just before they close; the selection is fairly pathetic, but he manages to find some irises that aren't too wilted. He tosses the man his money and is on his way, hoping that he's not too late and Marie isn't already asleep.

She opens the door on the first knock and lets him in, smiling broadly. He looks around appreciatively; he's always liked her flat more than his own. It feels more welcoming, more like home, with all its small touches and knickknacks scattered around the place. He politely refuses the offer of a sandwich and drink. He ate on the way over.

"I just…came because I wanted to…see you. I hope that's alright." He hands her the flowers, which she sets into the empty vase standing on the table. She turns back to him and reaches for his face. He jerks away as she slowly removes the mask until he remembers, hissing in relief as cool air hits his face.

"Of course it is." She leads him towards the bed, kicking off her shoes. "I'm knackered though, so we're gonna have to do this conversation lying down."

Richard laughs quietly and joins her, lining his shoes up by the edge of the bed and setting his pistol on the nightstand within easy reach. They're a tangle of arms and legs almost instantly; Marie likes to be as close to him as possible, and he indulges her at every opportunity. He loves the feel of her body in his arms, can't get enough of her pressed up close to him; she worries constantly that she's putting on weight, that she's so much more plump than the stylish Atlantic girls, but he honestly likes her this way.

Within minutes they're kissing more than they're talking, and then moaning more than they're kissing. Richard has a hand tangled in her hair and one thigh firmly pressed between her legs when she plants a hand on his chest and pushes him away gently. He protests the loss of contact with a wordless frown.

"Richard, just wait a second." He sits up and watches curiously while she crosses the room to open her handbag. She comes back with three small packets in hand; condoms, of vulcanized rubber. Richard is speechless.

"One of the ladies downstairs has a fake wedding ring, and knows which pharmacists will only give you a stern glance and a warning. I thought it was better to be prepared." He glances at the condoms in her hand, to her face, and back again.

"You know I can…get these without having to-" He looks up again, and the expression on her face stops him cold. It's not a look he sees often, but it usually means he's treading dangerous waters. The last time he was on the receiving end of it, he'd come very close to irrevocably insulting the honor of Babe Ruth.

"Without having to do what?" Suddenly feeling very exposed, he wraps an arm around her waist and buries his face in her stomach.

"You don't…have to lie. Not for me."

She doesn't speak, tossing the condoms onto the bed and straddling him. He slides his hands up her thighs just to watch her shiver, while she unbuttons her blouse and tugs his shirt from his trousers. It takes a few minutes of teamwork for them to shuck all their clothing; her bed is tiny, and eventually she has to let him up to completely remove his trousers. She giggles breathlessly when he trips over them in his haste, and her treachery is returned when he traces a finger down her belly and brushes the lightest of touches there, earning him a surprised whimper.

They move in careful stages after that.

The first is with hands; she runs her nails down his arms, explores his chest, kneads his hips and thighs. Finally, finally, when he's so hard it's almost painful, her hand closes around his shaft and gives him a few tentative strokes; he groans as all the colors in the world flash behind his eyes, and it's all he can do not to thrust into her hands and be done.

He wraps his hand around hers and shows her his rhythm, how tight to grip him, the little flick of the thumb over the head that drives him wild. By the time he stops her he's shuddering on the edge, but he wants to be inside her tonight, and that means he'll have to wait. She's breathing as hard as he is.

For the next stage he uses his mouth. He can't suck, not with his injury, but he can kiss, he can lick, and bite. He drags his tongue down her neck, blowing on the spot to make her tremble. A gentle nip to the hollow of her throat is quickly soothed by a press of his lips. He works his way down her body slowly, mapping every square inch of bare skin with his lips and tongue, taking care to memorize the location of every freckle and childhood scar.

When his head finally dips between her thighs she's nearly vibrating with anticipation. She throws her head back as he finds the movement that suits her best, hits all the spots that make her shudder and keen. When she comes she takes care not to grip his face too tightly with her legs, for fear of hurting him, and Richard thinks that he's never loved her more than he does in that moment.

When he finally enters her it's with his lips pressed to her temple and their hands clasped together.

He tries to go slow, tries to be gentle, but it still hurts her, and he feels incredibly guilty when he sees the tears in her eyes. He apologizes profusely, asks if she wants to stop, but she tells him to just wait, that she'll be alright in a minute. It gets better after that, although she doesn't come; it's just too much, she says, too overwhelming. He finishes quickly and they drift off to sleep.

The next morning they wake up in each other's arms. She's incredibly amused by his morning erection, and asks if he wants to try again.

This time he sets her on top of him, both of them sitting up, pressed tightly together. She's too inexperienced to know how to ride him, but Richard's been with enough whores to know what to do; he wraps an arm around her waist to guide her movements, to teach her how to time the roll of her hips with the slow drag of his thrusts, while with the thumb of his other hand he slowly circles the place right above where they're joined, the one that makes her shake.

This time, he makes damn sure they don't stop until she's trembling bonelessly in his arms.

* * *

><p>It's not until Thanksgiving that he manages to work up the courage to properly introduce her to Jimmy and Angela.<p>

He's not quite sure why he's so nervous. They've been after him to bring her over for months, and Marie's been interested in meeting them as well. So he accepts the invitation to bring her to Thanksgiving dinner, and they show up with casserole in hand to be ushered in like family. Richard doesn't eat too much, as is his usual custom in public, instead choosing to observe the way Marie plays with Tommy and chats with Angela about the paintings on the walls and the latest news from the art galleries in New York and Paris. Apparently some Picasso fellow is making waves in Montmartre. Jimmy watches him the whole time, smirking to himself occasionally. Richard desperately wishes he'd stop.

"She's a nice girl. Real sweet." Jimmy's taken him to the sunroom while the women clear up the dishes. Tommy is playing with his trucks in the corner, and both of the men watch him silently. Jimmy lights a cigarette and turns back to Richard.

"When are you going to ask?" Richard looks around hurriedly as Marie laughs from another room. Jimmy grins and claps him on the shoulder. "Relax, pal. She's still in the kitchen with Ange."

Richard nods and stares at the floor. He briefly wonders how Jimmy knew, if it's really that obvious.

"Soon. I haven't found a ring yet." He waits for Jimmy to stub out his cigarette butt and light a new one. "A spring wedding…might be nice. Her birthday is in May."

Jimmy looks at him for a long time before wrapping an arm around his shoulders, shaking him gently.

"I'm happy for you, Richard."

Their wedding is small and unspectacular, just a simple ceremony at the courthouse in April with two or three friends in attendance. It's all they can really afford, and they don't really have anyone to stand with them anyways; all of Marie's family is either dead or in Louisiana, and the only person Richard wants with him is Jimmy.

So they say their vows (beautifully written by Marie; Richard has no idea why she insists on calling her poetry bad, when her promise to love and cherish him beyond the end of her days has even the flinty old judge dabbing at his eyes) and sign the papers and suddenly, they're married.

Jimmy foots the bill for a night in the honeymoon suite at the Ritz, and Marie spends the entire night exclaiming over the rich furnishings in between glasses of champagne and bouts of lovemaking.

"My mama used to have a chair exactly like this one," she says, tracing an intricately carved armrest with a fingernail. "It was one of the finest things we owned. You would have thought it had come from Versailles itself, the way she talked about it."

Richard hums in agreement, only half paying attention; he's too busy looking at the way her silk robe is slipping off her shoulder, getting lost in the tumble of her black hair down her back. He holds out a hand and she comes to him, stumbling slightly from the champagne buzz.

They move into their new flat the next day. Angela gives them a painting as a housewarming present, and they display it in their sitting room. Marie's cousins send some of her mother's things up from New Orleans upon hearing of her marriage; a small clock, several quilts, family pictures, a set of dishes. They spend hours moving furniture and shuffling possessions, trying to fit everything neatly in the miniscule space, but when they're done it's home.

* * *

><p>It's not perfect.<p>

They soon find out that Richard is a morning person and Marie is most definitely not. He's a fastidious saver and a firm believer in budgets while she can barely balance an account, causing him to wonder aloud to her great annoyance how she managed to avoid insolvency before meeting him. He sometimes snores like some kind of unholy devil (an unfortunate side effect of his condition), which takes her months to get used to.

He still occasionally falls victim to crushing depression, which frightens her to death.

Their first row takes place after he comes back from a job. He's ordered to take out a middleman who's been skimming from the profits and threatening Jimmy's reputation in the process, and who's failed to stop despite several warnings. Despite Richard's careful preparation the bastard knew he was coming, and had lain in wait with several of his friends. He and his men had taken them out, but only barely, which was why he'd returned home to his horrified wife the next morning with a knife wound to the side.

"Do I need to call the police? Or the doctor?" He waves her off, too tired to argue.

"I've…had worse, Marie," he says, tapping his mask pointedly. She gives him a withering glare and plants her hands on her hips.

"That doesn't mean you need to let yourself bleed to death now. Let me call Doctor Barnes." He shakes his head, crossing the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey. He tosses it back in one, and pours another. When he turns to face her again, her expression has softened.

"Richard, what _happened_?" Irritation flares in the pit of his stomach. They've had this conversation before. His work is the only topic that is completely off-limits; he can't bear the thought of telling her that he kills people for a living. She probably suspects something of the sort; he works for Jimmy Darmody, after all, whose reputation isn't exactly a secret. But he's not sure he would be able to stand the expression that's sure to cross her face if she knew.

"You know I…can't talk about my job." Her jaw clenches, and she advances on him, her voice hard.

"I think I deserve to know, especially if you're coming home with _knife wounds_-"

"No." It comes out louder and angrier than he intended. She frowns, struggling to keep the hurt from her face. He feels as though he's taken a blow to the stomach. "It's not your…business, Marie. Stay out of it."

He stands and picks up his coat, leaving her stunned in the middle of the kitchen. He's almost out the door when she appears behind him, tears in her eyes.

"Of course it's my business. You're my husband." He buttons his coat quickly and puts his mask on, trying to ignore the hot sting in his chest. He doesn't look at her as he opens the door.

"Stay out of it." She rushes toward him as he walks out.

"Richard, where are you-" The door cuts off the rest of her sentence as it closes.

They end up calling the doctor anyways. Not because of his wound, but because when he comes back that afternoon to apologize he finds her passed out on the floor in the bedroom. He sits rigidly in the chair in the kitchen, terrified that something is very wrong and his wife may die. Maybe it's polio. Or Spanish Flu. The epidemic passed years ago, but you never knew.

The doctor spends a very long time examining her.

When he finally comes out of the bedroom, Richard stands and shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the fact that he's shaking. The doctor gives him a friendly smile and claps him on the shoulder.

"Relax, son. She's resting now, no sickness that I can see. I think you'd best start setting up a college fund, though. You'll be needing one in about eighteen years." Richard blinks at the man, turning to look at the darkened bedroom door. He can't quite wrap his head around the words forming in his mind.

"She's pregnant?"

"Yes sir. Best guess, about three months along." The doctor steered him back into his chair and sat at the table across from him. "What probably happened today was a dizzy spell. The fall shouldn't have hurt mother or child, but I've prescribed bed rest for the next few days just to be safe."

The doctor stands and heads for the door, discreetly leaving his bill on the table. Richard follows him, holding the door open so Barnes can heft his black bag through the threshold.

"I don't know how to…thank you, doctor." The doctor winks at him and shakes his hand.

"Take care of that wife of yours, son. And congratulations on the baby." Richard just nods.

He walks slowly into the bedroom, where Marie is curled up under her mother's quilt, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle. She opens her eyes as he kneels by the bed and strokes her hair.

"Doctor Barnes says we're going to have a baby." He smiles at her and kisses her soundly on the forehead.

"I almost…didn't believe him at first." He climbs over her carefully and slides under the blankets, wincing when he ends up lying on his injured side. He buries his face in her hair and whispers. "I'm so sorry."

She rolls over to face him, settling her head into the crook of his neck.

"So am I."

* * *

><p>Three months later, they've bought everything they need for the baby.<p>

The last item they get is the cot. They already have the cradle; Richard makes it himself, from scraps of cedarwood that he sands completely smooth and lines with cotton to protect the baby from splinters, but they still need a cot for when the child is inevitably old enough to require a big bed, and in the meantime it will be a good place for Marie to set the baby down during the day. So they buy it one afternoon, borrowing Jimmy's car to carry it home, Richard taking care not to drive too fast for fear of jostling his wife.

He helps her up the stairs first, like he always does; he's heard too many horror stories of pregnant women stumbling and falling and losing their children, even dying, to take the risk. He hands her the key to the door at the top; he'll need her to hold it open while he carries the cot in. He's halfway down the stairs, considering the rearrangements they'll have to make to the furniture, when he hears her scream.

He takes the stairs two and three at a time, sprinting down the hall past curious neighbors poking their heads out of doorways. Marie is frozen in the entry to their flat, staring at the kitchen table. Sitting on it is a severed human hand, still oozing blood. It's wearing a ring, one he recognizes; the hand belongs to one of his own men.

He tosses a dishcloth over it and grabs her by the arm, spinning her around to face him. She buries her face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. He wraps his arms around her and sweeps her into the bedroom, depositing her onto the bed.

"I'll be right back," he says, barely choking back his rage. "I've got…to go take care of that."

He wraps up the hand and stuffs it in his satchel, wiping up the blood as best he can and covering it with a bowl to hide the stain, and asks one of the neighbors to sit with Marie while he's gone. It's a short trip to the docks, where he hurls the hand into the ocean. He watches it float away on the receding tide and considers how easily the lock to the flat was picked; he's either going to have to install a better one, or move them to a house with stronger doors. They have a baby on the way; he needs to protect his family as best he can.

Changing his line of work flits through his mind only very briefly before he dismisses it entirely.

He throws out the table the next day.

It takes three weeks of squeezing associates and contacts, but he eventually gets a name: Grigory Steiner, a Jew running a little Podunk operation out of Delaware whose brother and partner he'd taken out during a firefight a few months before. It's another month before he finds the little bastard in person, but when he does, he takes his time with him.

Richard leaves him alive, but just barely, to serve as a warning to any who might be considering targeting his family again.

* * *

><p>The night Jack is born, Richard almost loses them both.<p>

When he comes out into the world, the cord is wrapped around his neck. Richard hovers outside the door as the doctor rushes around for a full forty-three heart-stopping seconds saying things like _not breathing_ and _deprivation_, applying all kinds of medical appliances to his son before a good old-fashioned slap brings about a first tentative, wailing cry. Jack is handed over to the nurses, who begin fussing over him, taking measurements and weights and checking to make sure he has all his toes. Richard lets out a shuddering breath, determined not to cry, and then decides that the birth of his child is one instance in which it is acceptable for a man to weep.

Something is still wrong. The doctor is still rushing, this time around Marie. One of the nurses walks out, her face sympathetic.

"Mr. Harrow, I'm afraid your wife is bleeding more than we'd like. The doctor wants to take her into surgery. He'll be out to speak to you in a minute. Your son is doing very well, though we had a bit of a scare at first. You should be able to see him within the hour." Richard nods, his mouth dry. The nurse pats him on the shoulder just as the doctor comes out, his mouth set in a grim line.

When it comes time to fill out the birth certificate, Marie still isn't there. Richard pens in the names and dates of birth of himself and Marie; _Richard Joseph Harrow, 3 January 1894. Marie Cleménce Rivette Harrow, 17 May 1900._ He pauses over the next line.

_John Richard Harrow_. _3 June 1923._

Jack.

He waits to sign the certificate until Marie is there.

Eventually he is allowed to see his son. He doesn't touch him at first; he's so small and fragile-looking, like he's made of spun glass, that Richard is afraid he'll break at his touch. He finally settles on pressing a finger into Jack's tiny hand, marveling when he reflexively grasps at it. It's hard to tell which of his parents he most resembles; his copious, cowlicked hair is dark under the hat he's wearing, but they're both brunettes, and the nurses say that most babies have blue eyes in the beginning. His skin is a mottled red.

"Hello, Jack," he says tentatively. Jack doesn't respond, but then again, he's also an hour old. "I'm…your Papa." He thinks for a minute, wondering what else he can say.

"Happy birthday."

Marie finally comes out of surgery, and she's paler than he's ever seen her. He sits by her bed until she wakes up, groggy and confused. The first thing she asks about is the baby.

"He's…beautiful, Marie. Perfect." She smiles blissfully and falls asleep again, satisfied. They sign the birth certificate the next morning.


	3. Fall

FALL

Five years later he's strolling down the boardwalk on a September day, telling Jack not to get too far ahead of him, ruffling the tiny dark head fondly before his little boy sprints off towards the taffy shop to stare at the pulling machine. Jack has his mother's coloring, olive-skinned and black-haired, but his eyes are the same dark brown as Richard's.

Genevieve, on the other hand, is pale as a china doll. Genevieve Frances, their miracle baby, the one they never thought they'd have. Her existence still comes as a shock to him; the doctors had been convinced that Marie would never have another baby, that if she did the pregnancy would be even harder on her than it had been with Jack. And while the pregnancy had its difficulties, Genevieve's birth was as easy as breathing.

Genevieve squeals happily at something behind them. Richard shifts her against his shoulder so he can adjust her hat; Marie will never forgive him if he lets the baby get sunburned.

Suddenly Jack bounds up, clutching something in his hands.

"Papa, look!" He produces a filthy, bedraggled kitten, no more than a few days old. "It was all alone. I don't think its mama wants it anymore." Richard kneels carefully to avoid disturbing Genevieve, cupping his son's hand in his own. Jack looks up at him, wide-eyed, frowning in concern.

"Maybe she's…looking for her baby. I know Mama and I would…be out looking day and night if we couldn't find you…or Gen." Jack shakes his head, stroking the kitten's spine. It mews softly, nuzzling Jack's fingers. He stares at it in concern.

"Maybe we can keep it for her until she comes back to find it? It sounds so lonely." Richard watches Jack for a moment, and then pulls out his handkerchief.

"Wrap the kitty up so it…stays warm. We'll take it to Mama, she'll know what to do." He helps Jack wrap the kitten in the cloth so that its head is poking out, and smiles as Jack holds it carefully against his chest.

"We need to get…to the tailor before they close. Your uniforms should be ready for your first day of…school next week." Jack wrinkles his nose and pretends not to hear. He's spent the whole month trying to convince his parents that he doesn't need to go to school, since he can already read and do sums in his head. Richard teases him about it over supper while Marie is busy putting Genevieve to bed.

"Maybe instead of learning, you could…be the teacher. Since all you need is reading and addition." Jack mashes his carrots into his potatoes and scowls at his father, who raises an eyebrow back.

"I can't be the teacher, Papa. I'm not old enough." Jack shakes his head emphatically to drive the point home, and Richard smiles at him before poking at the lump of plant matter on his son's plate.

"Eat those vegetables. How old…do you have to be to be a teacher?" Jack chews a carrot thoughtfully before answering, trying to think of the smartest person he knows.

"How old is Mama?"

That night he stays up with the insomnia that strikes at irregular intervals, moving around the kitchen as quietly as he can. Most of the time he sits and reads, or writes (a habit he picked up from Marie; it honestly helps to make sense of the worst of the memories, something he never thought he'd be able to do), but tonight he's cleaning up; Jack made a considerable mess during dinner, and Marie has enough on her hands with the baby during the day. He likes to help out where he can.

He hears a soft noise float from another room and stops moving, straining to hear it again. He tracks it down the hall and a bit to the left; the direction of Jack's room. He walks down the hall and checks that the windows are secured and the yard is empty, and then opens his son's door.

"Papa." Jack whimpers when he registers who's come in, reaching for his father from his bed. Richard goes to him immediately.

"Hey. What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nightmare. There were sharks." Jack has been terrified of sharks ever since seeing one hauled up on the pier with water rushing from between its rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Richard sits on the edge of the bed and Jack climbs into his lap, tiny fingers twisting themselves into his shirt. If Marie were here she'd sing old Cajun lullabies, but Richard just strokes Jack's hair until he falls asleep.

* * *

><p>The proudest day of his life is the day Jack walks through the door in his Army uniform, the day before he's shipped to England. It's also the most terrifying.<p>

It's 1943. Marie begs him to use the contacts she'd previously pretended not to know about, to ask the people in power that he knows from his days working with Jimmy Darmody to keep Jack out of the war (Jimmy is long dead now, murdered in a power struggle with Luciano and Lansky in the early Thirties. Richard hasn't thought of him in years). But Jack wants to sign up, and Richard isn't going to stand in his way; he's a grown man, and knows his own mind.

It doesn't stop him from fearing for his son.

"I just want to make you proud, Papa," Jack says, when he tells Richard of his decision to volunteer. "I want to serve my country the way you did."

Richard nods. He remembers the day he volunteered, standing in line for his physical with the rest of the men (boys, really, now that he thinks about it), all piss and vinegar and spoiling for a piece of the Germans. Jack isn't much younger than Richard was when he was handed that paper marked _1-A_.

"You already…make me proud, son." He takes off his mask, rubbing the void that used to be his face. He looks his son steadily in the eye. "But this is…war. This is what I got…for serving my country. I don't regret going, but I want you…to know what you're getting into."

Jack meets his father's gaze. He's used to the sight of the old war wound; Richard still doesn't wear the mask at home, not since the night with Marie in his flat twenty years ago. Jack takes his father's hand and squeezes it.

"I'm going, Papa."

So Jack goes to boot camp, and jump training, and sixteen weeks later he's standing in his parents' kitchen teasing his little sister while his mother dishes up boudin sausages from a frying pan.

"And don't you let that David fellow too close, Gen. I don't want to come home and find out I've got a brother-in-law." Jack tugs on his sister's hair, and Genevieve swats at him and appeals to Richard for intervention, and they all sit down to eat. Richard tries not to think of it as their last meal as a family.

D-Day comes three days after Jack's twenty-first birthday.

* * *

><p>They spend the next two years getting along as best they can, rationing and saving and sending as much of their love to Jack as possible. His letters are sporadic, and much of the text is blacked out, but they mean that Jack is still alive. Marie saves them all in a drawer in the study, folded and stacked in order by postmark. Richard takes them out once in a while when he's having trouble sleeping and traces the carefully-formed words, stained with trench dirt and carbine grease.<p>

Genevieve volunteers at the veterans' hospital in her spare time reading letters and serving drinks to the wounded men. Richard accompanies her to work sometimes; he's spent more than his fair share of time in hospital rooms being prodded by doctors, feeling like a circus freak. He sits with the injured men, sometimes talking, sometimes not, providing solidarity in the knowledge that they are not alone. That someone has been through this very thing before and come out of it alive.

One man in particular takes an interest in Gen, and Richard calls on every resource he has to vet him within an inch of his life. George Arthur Sandigan, age twenty, wounded in action in Holland. Born in Boston in 1924. Applied to and accepted by Harvard to study economics and law before the war.

George is handsome, except for the burns covering his chest and neck; he was caught in a grenade blast during Operation Market Garden. He is unafraid of Richard, which is a surprising change of pace from Genevieve's other suitors, all local boys; they all know him as Richard Harrow, The Tin Man, Jimmy Darmody's point man. If he only had a heart.

He invites George over for dinner one evening, and it's almost like having Jack home; George laughs easily and offers to help Marie cook, offering up suggestions as to the use of the limited rations available to make new recipes. His grandmother is a formidable cook, he says, and taught him everything he knows. He plans to be a lawyer once the war is over.

He spends an inordinate amount of time silently flirting with Genevieve. It's nothing inappropriate, just quick brushes of the hand and furtive glances, but it's the type of thing Richard was never good at himself; he has to pull Marie aside and ask if he should have a talk with the boy about propriety.

"It's harmless, Richard," she says to him warmly as he watches the two of them clear away the dishes, laughing the whole time. "We're not living in the Twenties anymore, love."

When it's time to leave George kisses Marie and Genevieve politely on the cheek, shakes Richard's hand firmly, and that's that. When he comes back three weeks later to ask permission to propose, Richard and Marie immediately say yes.

* * *

><p>Jack comes back from the war a different man altogether.<p>

It's a change Richard knows all too intimately. Two Purple Hearts shine on Jack's shoulder among various commendations, although Richard wouldn't have needed to see the medals to know; he can read it on his son's face, in the set of his shoulders. It's a place he's been himself for two decades.

Jack spends his first week home lying on the bed in his room, staring at the ceiling. He's silent except for the nightmares, which come every night for almost two months. Richard comes in and sits with him during the worst of it; they don't talk, not at first, until Jack asks him how he was wounded in the first place.

Richard tells the story for the second and last time in his life. He holds his son while he cries. Jack's seen his father's wound his entire life, but that day is the first day that he really _sees_.

Jack tells Richard what happened in France bit by bit. D-Day. Pieces of men lying on the beach among parts of boats, the tide running red with blood. The incident with the German patrol and the Frenchwoman in the farmhouse. The mind-numbing, bone-chilling cold of Bastogne.

Richard starts wearing the mask regularly again, for Jack's sake.

It gets easier for Jack as time goes on. He finds a kindred spirit in his brother-in-law, begins to come out of his shell-shock, but Richard never stops watching him for signs of the desolation that he suffered after his own war. More than once over the years he has found himself contemplating the business end of his shotgun, only to be interrupted in time by the thought of Marie or his children. He feels it still, although it's more an afterthought now, closer to a whisper than the raw compulsion it had been decades before.

He simply won't let it happen to Jack.

* * *

><p>Genevieve and George's wedding is a fair sight more elaborate than Richard and Marie's had been.<p>

Richard sits in the first pew, an arm around Marie as they watch their daughter promise to honor, cherish, and respect the man she loves. Unlike her parents, Genevieve chooses to get married in the fall; she likes the colors of the leaves, and the cooler weather is more pleasant than the hot sting of the summer sun. The church is packed with friends and relatives; Genevieve is a popular and outgoing young woman, and George is possessed of an unusually large family even for an Irishman.

There is a white rose on the pew next to him, where Jack should be sitting. He wants to tear it to pieces.

It reminds him of the day he came back home from the grocery, when they'd all thought Jack was doing better, and opened the door to find his son slumped in a chair, pistol in hand. There was no note. Jack was twenty-four.

Richard refuses to look at it, focusing instead on his daughter. She's smiling broadly; though she resembles him most of all that smile is entirely Marie, and his heart twists to think that she's married so young. He and Marie had been in their twenties; surely eighteen is too soon.

George's family hosts the reception in their massive house, and Mr. Sandigan stations himself beside the record player to keep the music going after dinner. He too is a veteran, although he escaped the war uninjured, and Richard doesn't like the way he boasts about his escapades during combat; while killing is just a job to Richard anymore, something he does without a second thought, it's not something he ever speaks of. After several warning looks from Marie he escapes to have his first dance with Genevieve, and they laugh at his inability to keep time.

Later, when the newlyweds are tucked away in their marriage bed and Richard and Marie have retired to their guest room, he sits on the bed with his tie loosened and takes off the mask. It's not the same one he had when he first met Marie, although he still has that one locked away in a desk drawer; the new prosthetic is made of some kind of plastic, meant to look more natural. Most people can't even tell the difference until they stand face-to-face with him anymore.

The white rose from the pew sits atop the dresser, in front of the mirror. He stands and strokes a finger down the stem, feeling the loss of his son more acutely than ever. Marie catches him wiping away tears and wraps an arm around his waist, pressing soft kisses to the back of his shoulder.

There's a loud knock at the door before Mr. Sandigan bursts in, enquiring if his new in-laws are in need of a nightcap. He freezes as Richard turns to look at him, making no effort to hide his face; he's far beyond caring what others think of how he looks these days, and Sandigan could do with being knocked down a peg or two. Marie slips around him and politely declines the offer.

When she's not looking, he tosses the rose into the rubbish bin.


	4. Winter

WINTER

Marie worries about the richness of the food, but Richard always goes to the boardwalk for lunch. He's eighty-two, and still in reasonably good health despite Marie's fears, and will eat lunch wherever he damn well pleases. Babette's is long gone, but the Ritz is still there, so he usually eats in the café downstairs where there's a good view of the ocean.

The view is impeded today, however, by a young man in a miserable mock-up of Twenties fashion, who practically trips over himself when he recognizes Richard.

"Oh my god, you're Richard Harrow. The Tin Man?" He laughs a short, gruff laugh.

"That's me." The young man sits down across from him, all elbows and too-tight sleeves.

"So pleased to meet you, sir. I'm doing my dissertation on organized crime during Prohibition, and I'd love to interview you. You were right there in the middle of it, working with Jimmy Darmody, Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky, Al Capone…" Richard holds up a hand, cutting the young man off.

"I'm…sure you would. But I don't talk about…that time."

"But…" Richard shakes his head. It's been a sticking point with him all his life; except for one time he's never talked about his work, and never intends to. Not with civilians.

He can speak about the men, though; they deserve to be remembered, not as gangsters or murderers, but as human beings.

He talks about Jimmy's vision, his resolve, the confidence with which he moved. The caring underneath the stoic exterior, how he saw Richard when nobody else did. He tells of Capone's brashness and brutality, the balancing act of Lucky Luciano's hot temper and Meyer Lansky's measured, rational restraint. Nucky's charm and Rothstein's cold class. They are all of them dead now except for Lansky, who's on the run in Israel.

When the young man has had his fill Richard stands and leaves, moving out into the February chill. The boardwalk has changed, but a few essential things have stayed the same: the sound of the waves, the creak of the boards, the benches facing the sea. He sits at one of them, settling into it with the familiarity most men save for their armchairs at home.

A voice suddenly speaks behind him. It is brittle with age, but the Louisiana cadence is still the same, and it is just as sweet as the day he first heard it in that overheated room in Babette's.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?" He looks up to find her standing next to him, her black hair now completely, shockingly white. He can't help but smile as she sits down.

* * *

><p>She goes first, which he considers a blessing. He'd always been afraid of leaving her on her own.<p>

It happens on September the first, 1978, at about six o'clock the afternoon. The doctors tell him it's a combination of old age and sickness; she'd had some sort of virus for a while, and simply couldn't hold it off any longer. So he goes to the hospital and holds her hand until her body finally gives out and the monitors quit beeping, and then he stays until the doctors tell him to go home.

He's not sure what to do with himself when he gets there. He doesn't want to eat; she's gone to the trouble of preparing a few days' worth of meals for him before going to the hospital, because his hands are too arthritic to hold a pan and she doesn't believe in microwave food, and he can't touch the plates wrapped in tinfoil just yet. He tries to sleep, but the scent of her clings to the bed and he keeps waking up to find himself reaching toward empty space, the way he did during that time in 1922 when she nearly abandoned him, having found out the exact nature of his job. He finds himself strangely nostalgic for that week; at least then he knew there was a chance she would come back home.

He sits and watches television and lets Genevieve handle the funeral arrangements, and he waits.

The funeral itself, like their wedding, is simple and uncomplicated. A few brief words are said by a pastor, and then a few friends and their daughter, and then a cellist is brought in to play her favorite song, Air on the G String. He's the first person to throw a handful of earth into the grave, and he stays until she's completely swallowed by the ground.

When the undertakers have gone he remains, staring down at the stone that marks what's left of his wife. He pulls off his mask for the first time that day; they're finally alone. A soft breeze blows past, carrying the scent of the ocean with it, and he's reminded of the boardwalk, and the sun in her hair.

It's only then that he allows himself to cry.

* * *

><p>His tombstone reads:<p>

_Richard Joseph Harrow_

_Beloved Husband and Father_

_Loyal Soldier_

_January 3 1894-October 9 1978_


End file.
